


The One Where Graves Goes To War (and everyone is okay)

by cookingwithcyanide



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M, War Fic, and graves gets put in it, anyways who wants to see gays riding dragons step roght up, graves doesnt know theseus yet he meets him in the fic, hijinks ensue, in which newt is captain of a dragon regiment, itll be pretty fluffy all things considered, just fr future notice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-09-18 19:33:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9399902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookingwithcyanide/pseuds/cookingwithcyanide
Summary: In which percival graves makes a potentially terrible life decision and newt is a majestic and stunning dragon rider in charge of a regiment. actually hes super flighty so far bc he cares more abt his dragons than the new recruit coming into camp. dont worry though, itll all turn out okay.





	1. In Which Percival Graves Makes A Potentially Terrible Life Decision

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be a mulan au but then i started writing it and. it didnt work out that way.

When the war begins, MACUSA sends a number of its Aurors abroad to fight. It's meant to be a gesture of support and solidarity, but mostly what it does is leave a lot of empty office space and create a lot of overtime for those who were told they had to stay. Percival Graves was never a fan of overtime, despite what his future employees would grumble years down the line.

It isn't _just_  the overtime that prompts Graves to enlist, though. Spite, a little bit, at the president of MACUSA ("You simply cannot enlist, Percy," he had said with his condescending smile, "Who will keep New York in line?"

"Picquery seems to be doing a good job of that presently."

Another condescending look. "Oh, but who will keep the other _Aurors_  in line with her at the helm?"

Pig.)

Even more, Graves wants to fight because he believes in the war, believes that Grindlewald's skewed ideology should be shut down in any way possible. So he takes a leave of absense under the pretense of caring for his sick mother (who is, at the time, living happily and healthily in Northern Ireland with her husband and several dogs) and enlists under the name of Percival Collins.

The only person he tells before he ships out is Picquery, at which point she promises him three things: that he'll get himself blown to pieces before his first week is up, that she'll be President of MACUSA within two years, and that, should he somehow survive his own stupidity, he'd have a job when he comes home.

 

At the end of his first week abroad, Graves hasn't even been placed under a commander yet. He sleeps in barracks with a transient population who are being shuffled this way and that all over Europe for another two before he gets a letter with his orders. He's going to Hungary, apparently. To join the Iron Dragon Company. Graves stares at the letter for a moment, takes a deep breath, and then, soulfully, " _Fuck._ " Maybe Picquery had been right- the dragon regiments aren't exactly renown for their high survival rates.

When his portkey dumps him in the Middle Of Fucking Nowhere, Hungary the next day, he thinks he sees why: everyone here is batshit insane. There are at least five men swarming up the side of a mountainous, shieking dragon, _laughing_  and whooping to each other while they pour streams of water over her snout and tie her down with heavy iron chains. Massive turuls from the nearby forests circle overhead unchecked, and the camp doesnt seem to be organized by any sort of precedent, except maybe _least flammable tents go nearest to the dragon._ Graves stands at the edge of the chaos for a while, seriously contemplating just... apparating away and waiting until he gets assigned to a fucking _sane_  regiment, until a harried man with half of his hair singed off and (Graves counts) seven fingers left on his tooth-marked hands jogs up to him. His salute is as crooked as his grin.

"Lieutenant Odi Berka. You lookin' for something?" He doesn't offer a hand, but Graves thought that was excusable, all things considered.

"I'm Corporal Percival Collins, reporting for duty with the Iron Dragon Company. Can you tell me where I might find Captain Scamander?" There is another roar and a cascade of profanity from the dragons' corrall. "If you're not too busy with... that."

"Oh, Kisegér? She's just pissy that she can't go out on the air raid mission tonight. Bad wing, y'know. Nothing to be worried about." Lieutenant Berka does an abrupt turn-about and begins plodding into the mess of tents. "Now! Off to see the captain!"

Graves trails along behind him, decidedly worried. The clear evidence of recent fire to most of the structures he passes does nothing to appease him, nor does the incessant rackett still coming from the corrall. Yes, Graves is very worried when Berka ducks under a seemingly random canvas flap into what turns out to be the mess. His first impression of Captain Scamander might actually bring him to hysterics, if he was made of less sturdy stuff. As it is, he can only stare.

The captain is young, hardly old enough to enlist, let alone acheive his rank. He's all angles and points; gangly and inelegant in his rumpled uniform. He's speaking feverishly under his breath to what looks like a living twig on the edge of his map.

Berka clears his throat. "Captain Scamander." The man doesn't stop his rapid-fire speech, or his tracing the progress of two large black dots across the map. " _Sir._ " Still no response. The lieutenant angles another one of his crooked grins to Graves and grasps Scamander's shoulder. "Corperal Collins is here to see you."

That, at last, gets the man's attention. "What was that, Berka..? Oh." Scamander glances over his shoulder and freezes when he sees Graves. "Oh! There was a letter about you coming. You're here to take Mortan's position, yes?" Graves' dismay at his first conclusions must show in his face, because the captain laughs, corrects, "No one ate her, Corporal. She's on maternity leave. She'll be back in a few months. In the meantime, you'll be, ah..." something on his map catches his attention, and Scamander trails off.

Berka doesn't seem to think that this is anything out of the ordinary. He leads Graves out of the tent and deeper into the camp. The shouts from the dragon seem to have subsided, at the very least.

"Captain's usually less flighty than that, sorry. Well. A bit less. He's always on edge when his babies are out."

"His babies?" Graves is almost afraid to know the answer.

"The dragons. He practically raised Kisegér, and he's been working with Madártoll and Szikla since they were adolescents. They're sweethearts, our best mounts. God knows why Anya puts up with him. She's a cranky old _nagymama_. Won't let anyone but the captain near her. She's in isolation across camp. The other two are scouting."

"Ah." He was right. Everyone in the camp was insane.

"You'll have to take Mardátoll out for a trip sometime, once Captain's vetted you thoughoughly enough for his tastes."

Batshit insane. Graves is glad to be deposited at his bunk with a schedule and a rundown of his new responsibilities as corporal, and a creeping sense that he'll regret his decision to enlist very much in the coming months.  _Picquery,_ __he reluctantly concedes, _may have been right._


	2. In Which Graves Is About Two Seconds From Deserting Because What The Hell Is Wrong With These People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> graves kinda just wants to go home. everyone around him is batshit crazy and he just. wants to go home. who calls a DRAGON their fucking POPPET. what is WRONG with everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao whats an "update schedule." its been? four months? anyways. dragons.

At least the charmed canvas walls muffle most of the clamor outside, and there's a few hours before the scouts are due back. The other bunks in the tent all have personal touches, photographs and trinkets, around them, but Graves didn't bring anything with him but the clothes on his back.

He looks more closely at some of the pictures pinned to the canvas across fron him. They're magical, all of them including the same woman. She's tall and muscular, with dark skin and darker hair always pulled back in a knot of cornrows. Lieutenant Berka makes a few appearances, as does the captain- perhaps this is Mortan? It's likely. Graves moves past the second bunk, which he presumes to be Mortan's; it's empty of anything but a cleanly folded set of sheets and a small stack of letters. The third cot is just the opposite: there are loose sheets of parchment covered in illegible ink and anatomical sketches of animals all over it, the bedding in a heap at the foot, and a single blurry photograph of a man who looks like a sturdier version of Scamander laughing and pushing the camera away. This, Graves thinks wryly, must be the captain's. He's about to examine one of the drawings when he sees something dark and furry burrow deeper into the pile of bedding. Graves decides that, instead, he's going to sit back on his own cot and very pointedly ignore... whatever that is. He does such a good job of ignoring _everything_  that's happened to him today that he jumps when Berka clambers back into the tent.

"Good, you're still here! It's time for dinner, I came to show you back to the mess."

"Is there any reason I wouldn't be here?" Graves is reasonably sure that he knows the answer already.

Berka laughs good naturedly, "You wouldn't be the first to run off the first chance you get. The Dragon Corps tend to scare folks off."

"Ah." He doesn't let on that he's rather tempted to join the list of deserters. A court martial seems kinder than being scorched to death. Berka doesn't seem hindered by the terseness of Graves' answers; he keeps up a steady chatter about various tents and their purposes the whole way to the mess. He calls a greeting to everyone they pass. Incidentally, all passerby appear to be in some way or other singed, scarred, or scorched. The crowd in the mess hall isn't any better for wear.

Graves hears somebody shout "Berka!" from the corner of the tent and catches sight of the captain sitting with the twig from earlier lounging atop his hair. As Graves and Berka wade through choruses of friendly greetings aimed at the lieutenant, the captain stands and offers his hand to Graves.

"Hi. Collins, was it?" Graves grasps the proffered hand and shakes it. "I apologize for not properly greeting you earlier. Middle of a mission, you know. Had to keep an eye on my dragons."

"I understand," Graves replies, completely baffled.

"I'm Captain Newton Scamander, and this is Picket," he bows his head and gestures at the twig creature, which scrutinizes Graves with pointy wooden features ( _What,_ thinks Graves). "Call me Newt though. Or just Captain. I'm not picky."

"Understood, Captain." The total bewilderment must not show on Graves' face, because Captain smiles brightly and flops comfortably back down onto his bench, followed by Berka. Platters of bread, sausages, and stew are passed down the long table.

"Làngos, gulyás, and pogása," Berka narrates. "Just like _Apa_  used to make."

"Are you from around here?" Graves asks around a mouthful of fried bread.

Berka nods. "Most of the camp is. I'm from a village a few miles north of her, at the edge of the mountains. And where have you come to us from?"

"New York, New York." Captain Scamander, who has up until this point been casually following the proceedings, perks up at that.

"Really? I've spent some time there, helping MACUSA with a case." A flash of anger over his face, "The case did not end well. The city, however, was lovely. Creatures I've never seen before- all over. I picked up my niffler there."

"Niffler, sir?"

Berka scoffs. "Tiny pickpocket with a duckbill. You'll know when you meet him because your watch and all your money will be gone." This explanation does nothing to assauge Graves' confusion, but he nods anyways.

Captain smiles sunnily. "He's a sweet little thing, really. Just... keep an eye on anything shiney you want to keep around your bunk."

Furrowing his brow, Graves replies, "I'll make sure to." Properly meeting his captain was doing nothing to improve his opinion of the man. It's a wonder that everyone hasn't already been eaten alive by the dragons with him at the helm. Speaking of- there's a great ripple in the canvas tent walls and a few dozen men, the captain included, leap to their feet to run outside.

"Madártoll and Szikla are back," Berka explains. "Do you want to come out and meet them?"

"Not particularly," Graves says, but he follows the lieutenant back to the corrall on the edge of camp anyways. _In for a penny, in for a pound,_ he thinks.

Dust and sand being buffetted all over by the dragons' descent sting Graves' eyes and make it almost impossible to see. The sillhouettes that the _can_  make out against the dusky sky are something to behold, though. Massive, stocky bodies supported by enormous wings dip down from their flight as soldiers sprint to and fro preparing tethers and equipment. Everyone keeps well out of the way of the dragons, except for one figure. The captain, apparently oblivious to his impending doom by way of being crushed, is standing in the center of the corrall with his arms spread wide, calling indecipherably to the dragons.

"What the fuck is he doing?" Graves shouts ober the commotion to a passing Berka, who has a massive coil of rope over his shoulder and a wide smile on his face.

"He's saying hello," Berka shouts back. "Watch."

Graves turns back to the captain just as the dragons land with a tumultuous thud. One of the dragons stretches its massive head down, but rather than snapping Scamander up like a snack, it... headbutts him? Nuzzles him? Whatever it does, it doesn't look nearly so so violent as Graves is expecting. The other dragon puffs smoke at him and the captain fucking _laughs,_  of all things, and pats it on the snout before helping down its rider. The first dragon's rider is already at his side, giving him a sheaf of parchment and a hug before kissing her dragon's bowed head and strolling off with her partner. (There's no way she _kissed_  her dragon goodbye, Graves thinks. That's insane. They're all insane.)

"Collins!" Captain is beckoning him forwards in between his task of unsecuring harnesses. Graves would like nothing better than to directly disobey. "Come meet Madártoll and Szikla!"

Berka finishes the knot he's tying and retrieves him from where he's rooted himself a safe distance from the corrall. "Don't worry, Mitchell and Rey tired them out flying all afternoon."

Now, Graves isn't a frightful person. He considers himself to be pretty damn brave, when it comes down to it. He's an Auror, for Merlin's sake. But. There is a point where anyone would draw the line and apparently for Graves, that line is drawn at being dragged towards a pair of smoking Ironbellies under no restraint except for a few rope tethers apiece.

Captain Scamander throws an arm around his neck and introduces him to the beasts ("This is Corperal Collins, he's a new friend! Say hello, now, poppet!"), but the only thought in Graves' head is that Picquery was right and he's definitely about to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i get that its not rlly graves' character to be flipping his shit All The Time but hes kind of a fuck mess and also cut him some slack. hes trying his best here.
> 
> Apa- Dad


	3. Graves Comes To The Stunning Realization That Seraphina Picquery Is Always Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What The Fuck Is An Update Schedule? i wanna be one of those rlly cool, chic authors who post every week but? not gonna happen im a mess
> 
> as always hmu with any mistakes you see!! im gonna rope somebody into betaing for me one day. one day.

A gust of hot, dry air snaps Graves out of his shock. Staring directly into his face is a great grey snout, smoking at the nostrils. Graves gulps, but the captain squeezes his shoulder excitedly.

"Look, Madàrtoll likes you! Isn't she lovely?"

"I," Graves has trouble straightening his thoughts, staring as he is at a ghastly set of teeth revealed when the dragon in question yawns widely and rearranges itself on the ground. "Sure."

Scamander doesn't seem to be paying attention to his reaction, anyways. He goes right up to the dragon's- Madàrtoll's- head like it couldn't incinerate him with a sneeze and starts talking to it like a baby.

"Rey said you did such a good job today, didn't you, Mardàtoll? You followed all of her instructions and didn't fight at all. Good girl! Im so proud of you-" he's interrupted by the other dragon (Sikka? Szikla? Something like that.) snagging him by his tunic like a kitten and swooping him over to her. "Aww, you too, poppet. You're always a good one..."

Graves, utterly bewildered, looks to Berka for help. "I told you earlier, he's been with them for years. They're friendlier with them than me, and they were practically hatched in my backyard."

"He does realize that they could kill him, right? In a second?"

"Bah, they never would. Not even old Anya would touch a hair on his head, and shes taken a bite out of a good few of our men."

Graves stares at him. "You're all insane."

"Probably," Berka chuckles, "but you're stuck with us now."

"Fantastic," Graves replies faintly. He was right, but Graves was going to allow himself some well-deserved panic and regret.

 

The panic and regret subside within two weeks. Graves has no trouble filling out tedius paperwork that's probably-definitely- supposed to be taken care of by Captain Scamander. Mortan, he realizes, was one of the only people keeping the camp from falling apart before her leave. He is still shaken (to say the least) by any racuous behavior by the dragons, and constantly as bemused as he is confused by the behavior of everyone around him towards such instances ranging from watches being stolen by Captain's  _niffler-_ a pest with the well-deserved moniker of Bandit- to prosthetic limbs melting during one of Kisegér's temper tantrums. That is to say, everyone is disturbingly relaxed about everything. It's hard not to get caught up in.

When Graves writes to Picquery that if one more _goddamn_ meal gets interrupted by his silverwear dissappearing from under his nose, or a tent being set on fire, or a _minor medical emergency_  (which is more commonly reffered to as "suprise amputation" by most of the soldiers) he's going to fucking _lose it,_  her response is the peak of brevity:

_Congratulations. You've assimilated._

Graves is almost proud of himself until Captain Scamander slings a gangly arm around his shoulder and says, "Kata Péter was discharged last night-"

Berka wrispers a wry around his palacsinta.

"-and I think that _you_  should take over as Maràrtoll's secondary!" He's smiling like he just told Graves that he's giving him new puppy.

"Uh," Graves would very much like to respond, vehemently, _fuck nope,_ because he very much values his life and his limbs, thank you very much. To the Captain in his head, Graves does say this. To the Captain who's still smiling at him with all the brightness of the sun and who has his arm firmly around Graves' shoulders, he says, "Great."

Captain jumps up and goes on his way, trailing an ecstatic "Fantastic!" over his shoulder. Leaving Graves kind of wanting to slam his head into the table and Berka cackling.

"You could've said no, Collins."

"No I couldn't have. No one turns Captain down without getting guilted into doing shit anyways."

"Just because _you_ don't have any defenses built up to puppy-dog eyes..." Berka was doing an exceptional job, as always, of Not Helping.

"Fuck off, Odi, you shouldn't be so rude to the dead." That just set him off again. Graves gave his most put-upon sigh and began stacking their dishes, constructing his next letter to Picquery in his mind:

_Assimilation my ass. This is what  resignation feels like._

Madártoll, when Graves sucks it up and makes his way to her enclosure, is far more subdued than Scamander is. She's curled loosely on the groud, scales dully reflecting the sun. It looks like she's asleep and he thanks the gods for small blessings.

"Collins, you're here, wonderful!" He bounces lightly on the balls of his feet and jumps right into things. "You know that the front has been asking for more areal coverage?" Graves nods- it's been mentioned in several of the missives he's been in charge of filing. "The Iron Dragon Company is going to be in charge of that. I've been rearranging rider configurations for more combat-heavy flying, but it depends on what the dragons think of my choices, whether they'll go for it or not."

"I take it that Kata Péter wasn't approved, sir?"

The Captain tuts, continuing, "No, not quite. Sweet Madàrtoll can be awfully standoffish when she wants to be-" Graves isn't sure _standoffisg_ is a strong enough adjective to encompass a bitten off leg- "and Kisegér likes Mitchell and Rey well enough, so I'll be Madàrtoll's primary, and Szikla is content to stay with Berka, and Mortan when she gets back. It's been nearly impossible to find myself a secondary that Madàrtoll won't reject, but I remember how taken she is with you whenever you work her landings, so I figured we could at least try it out!"

For all that he could hardly put together a full sentance most of the time, Scamander can go on for ages about his dragons.  _Ages._

"I'm sorry, Captain, what exactly are you asking?" Graves knows. Graves knows exactly what his captain was asking him to do; he's still working towards that blissful resignation that he kinda sorta really needs.

"Corporal, would you like to be Madàrtoll's secondary rider?"

Somehow it always comes back to Picquery (why did she always have to be right?) : Graves is going to fucking die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey look guys, a plot! its forming! ive started putting down some ideas as to where this fic is gonna go, and its still pretty fluid atm but i think i have some thoughts.
> 
> also, berka has endless puppy-dog-eye defenses bc he has a hoard of siblings. hes invincible.

**Author's Note:**

> please dont translate the dragon names because theyre So Lame (berka named them okay. it wasnt me it was bERKA)
> 
> nagymama- grandma


End file.
